


cutting up the trees behind my house

by spikenard



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Frottage, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutually Unrequited, Not Talking About It, Pre-Series, mentions of Magical Suicidality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 10:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10762188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikenard/pseuds/spikenard
Summary: Nighttime was silent at Monmouth, even with the windows open in a futile attempt to coax in a breeze. The air itself was dull and sterile, its stagnant heat oppressive. Nothing was alive at Monmouth this late except a boy and a weapon.Ronan couldn’t sleep.





	cutting up the trees behind my house

**Author's Note:**

> another fic about 4 am. set approximately october, about six months preseries; contains references to but no in-depth exploration of the things that setting implies. also some questionable teen sex and pretty severe internalized homophobia. See Endnotes For Details if you think these themes might upset you; endnotes contain spoilers.

Nighttime at Monmouth was different from nighttime at the Barns. It felt stupid to have to realize that, like the sort of thing he should have been able to figure out for himself, but Ronan was still almost shocked. At the Barns, the night was a living thing. It was louder than the day, animal noises like a ringing in the ears.

Aglionby had been nearly the same, or at least comfortingly familiar with the window wedged open and a breeze carrying sound up to the second floor. Quieter, but the curated trees and manicured lawns were as capable of hosting peeping frogs and crickets as the riot of nature at the Barns.

Monmouth was different. Nighttime was silent at Monmouth, even with the windows open in a futile attempt to coax in a breeze. The concrete lot muffled noise like the carpeted stairs at the Ganseys’ D.C. mansion. The air itself was dull and sterile, its stagnant heat oppressive. Nothing was alive at Monmouth this late except a boy and a weapon.

Ronan couldn’t sleep.

He stared at the ceiling. He put his legs against the wall and dangled his head over the edge of his bed until he could feel all the blood in his body rushing to his head. He fidgeted with the bandages around his wrists until he noticed he was doing it, and then clenched his fists in the sheets instead. Stupid. They’d come half-unpeeled.

His arms were itching. So were the latest scrapes he’d acquired: a long line up his thigh and over his hipbone, and scrabbling claw marks up his calf. He could see the scabs on his shin where his legs were still in the air; they were raised and purple in the moonlight.

Ronan swung his legs over the side of the bed and scrambled up from the floor. He pulled his bandages off and inspected the cuts. The stitches looked about ready to come out, and there was hardly any bruising anymore. Ronan had always been a fast healer. His fingertips itched to peel back the scabs.

He poured a little whiskey over the wounds and then realized he was being an idiot; he had the real stuff, thanks to the hospital. He slathered fancy antibacterial lotion on his arms instead, and stuck the band-aids Gansey had bought him — the biggest size for sale and still too small to cover Ronan’s wounds — over the cuts. They didn’t quite stick, because of the lotion; Ronan wrapped his whole forearms up in self-adhesive athletic tape just to be safe, scrubbing over the backs of his arms to get it to adhere properly.

He stood there, restive and shirtless, peering around his room. He knocked back a slug of whiskey, but there was no point in drinking more. He was rickety tonight, not angry, and alcohol didn't help with that. There was nothing there that would help him sleep. There was nothing there that would stop him from dreaming.

Ronan found his fingers running over the bumpy scab on his hipbone, where it peeked out of his boxers. If his nails hadn’t been bitten short, his scratching would have pulled the scab up. He couldn’t seem to stop himself.

Ronan swore, caught up in a swell of fury. He seized his tube of wound cream and flung it as hard as he could; something across the room gave a tinkling shatter. Ronan stood there, breathing hard, filled with regret that tasted the same as his anger. He must have broken one of the few things he’d brought along from home. He hated this. He hated it here. He hated himself.

###

In the next room, Gansey woke up.

He hadn’t been asleep, exactly. He rarely slept well. He never had.

His mother used to tell what she considered charming stories about him at dinner parties: about how even as a baby, or as a little kid, Gansey would refuse to settle at night, not wanting to miss anything. She stopped sharing those stories after Gansey’s _issues_ started; now, the Gansey family party line was that Gansey had been such a normal child, before all that unpleasantness.

Whether Gansey had been a normal child or not, he was no longer a bright-eyed kindergartener who wanted to be allowed to stay up past his bedtime to hear the grown-ups talk. Gansey had real reasons not to want to drift off, now. It was more important than ever that he not sleep through something important, that Noah wouldn’t have to wake him again to tell him that Ronan had left, and Noah thought he maybe knew where he’d gone —

Gansey hadn’t slept at more than a light doze for days.

He sat up in bed. An unseasonably late heat wave trapped the night in amber; Gansey could very nearly pretend it was still summer, before everything. The air refused to stir.

“Ronan?” Gansey said. He told himself he wasn’t going to lecture. He was going to make sure Ronan was alright, and then he was going to leave it alone. Ronan was always making strange noises in his room at night. They weren’t any of Gansey’s business, if Ronan was to be believed. Gansey was just going to make sure Ronan was alright, that was all.

Ronan appeared in the door before Gansey could stand. He wasn't precisely backlit, just a dark shadow cut out of the moonlight filling the doorframe.

Gansey’s eyes skittered over Ronan’s bandaged arms, and strained to pick out an expression on his shadowed face.

“Are you going out?” Gansey asked, despite himself. He could hear the worry slipping around his tongue, the disapproval. Ronan didn’t say anything. He jerked his head at Gansey, and headed across the main room to the bathroom. Or maybe to the fridge. But he wasn’t heading towards the door.

Gansey lay back down, on his side, so he wouldn’t stare at the bathroom door, waiting until he saw Ronan safely settled back into his room. He wasn't a guard dog. Ronan didn't want to be supervised.

Strange noises emanated from the bathroom. Ronan was running the sink, long enough that he wasn’t just there for a glass of water. Maybe he was washing up.

Ronan wasn’t dressed to go out, Gansey reassured himself. He would have to do that first. And if he did decide to go out Gansey would hear the door.

Gansey didn’t have much of a plan for what he would do if he _did_ hear the door. Ronan had been shirtless, just in a pair of boxers; Gansey himself was in a sleep shirt and underwear. It wasn’t as though Gansey could chase after him like that. But he felt better having enumerated the various steps in place between Ronan and the potential for disaster.

The sink stopped running. Gansey waited. The bathroom door opened.

Gansey strained his ears. He could hardly hear Ronan walking. Or, he could hear him shambling barefoot over the concrete floor, but he couldn’t tell in which direction Ronan was heading, whether it was back to his bedroom or _out_.

Instead, Gansey’s mattress dipped.

Ronan was climbing into bed behind him.

It was too hot for Gansey to be under a blanket, or even under a sheet; it was easy for Ronan slump on top of him with his whole weight. Gansey wheezed. He said, “Ronan,” or started to, but Ronan put his hand over Gansey’s mouth to shut him up halfway through the word.

Gansey licked his hand and Ronan just left it there. His moveset depleted, Gansey tried licking Ronan’s hand again. That, too, had no effect. Gansey was disgruntled; this was what came of Ronan having grown up with brothers.

Gansey did not think about the fight Ronan and Declan had had in the hospital parking lot immediately after Ronan’s release, which had forced Gansey to pull a protesting Ronan back into the ER to have his eyebrow butterfly-stickered shut.

Licking a hand had always been very effective when Helen had still been young enough to tolerate that sort of carry-on. Or with other boys he’d roughhoused with, not that there had been many of them.

Ronan rolled off of him and shuffled across the sheets behind Gansey, fingers still uncaringly touching Gansey’s tongue. He let go of Gansey’s mouth once they were pressed together, front to back, his body heat nearly searing Gansey.

Ronan was a little damp. Gansey felt the back of his shirt stick against Ronan’s bare chest. Ronan wiped Gansey’s spit off on his sleep shirt and curled his arm around Gansey.

“Ronan,” Gansey whispered. It seemed dangerous to talk out loud, this late, the night this quiet, with the two of them so close. “What are you doing?”

Ronan didn’t say anything, but he squeezed his arm over Gansey and held him closer.

Gansey opened his mouth to say something else and felt the tip of Ronan’s nose pressing into the back of his neck. He lost his train of thought. Ronan’s breath was very warm and — not familiar, but certainly intimate, against the top knob of his spine.

Ronan rubbed his hand up and down Gansey’s chest, and breathed out a soft shushing noise. Gansey couldn’t be entirely sure whether it was intentional, to shut him up, or just Ronan’s nighttime breathing at close range. Gansey hadn’t had the chance to hear that before. Even at sleepovers at the Barns they’d slept a few feet apart, to the extent that Ronan nearly fell out of the hayloft one morning.

Ronan squeezed Gansey again, and worked his other arm under Gansey’s head so he could use it as a pillow. Gansey hummed in return. He felt very surrounded by Ronan. Encompassed.

Which meant Ronan wasn’t running off, Gansey told himself. That’s why this was nice; because he could feel Ronan, because he had solid and physical proof of Ronan’s existence, his presence. That was all.

Gansey allowed his next exhale to to press his ribcage back into Ronan’s chest, to fill up all the space between them, and he felt Ronan still.

He had just done something strange. Gansey was sure of it. He was going to drive Ronan away at this rate. Gansey was about to pull away, attempt to salvage whatever this was, to say that Ronan could stay here to sleep if that’s what he needed, when Ronan spread his palm wide over Gansey’s chest, his stomach. Over his shirt, that soft place in the v under his ribcage, at the top of his stomach.

Ronan made the shushing noise again. This time Gansey was pretty sure it was intentional.

“Relax,” Ronan said then, nearly a murmur. Gansey could feel Ronan’s lips brushing against the back of his neck, Ronan’s cold nose pressing into the short-cropped hair at the back of Gansey’s neck, the nape of his skull.

Gansey didn’t know how he was supposed to relax like this. He made an effort, but he could feel tension creeping in through his shoulders. Ronan was warm against his back, his hand a brand against Gansey’s sternum.

Ronan huffed a laugh. “Jesus,” he murmured into the back of Gansey’s neck, again so close that Gansey could feel Ronan’s mouth.

Ronan pulled his hand off Gansey’s stomach, and Gansey hadn’t wanted — if this was the first step of Ronan pulling away from him altogether, Gansey didn’t want that. He reached over his own side, with the arm that was nearly pinned to the bed by his own weight, groped for Ronan’s hand to pull it back.

He caught Ronan’s forearm and tugged. Ronan made a low noise against the back of Gansey’s neck, his lips parted and his mouth wet and Gansey was shivering and pressing back against Ronan instead of pulling away like he should, he wanted, he wanted — and then they were tipping over, Ronan leveraging Gansey onto his stomach and himself on top.

Gansey let out a low noise. He wasn’t pinned down; he should really roll them over and demand to know what this was about, what Ronan was playing at, but instead he let Ronan settle his weight in over Gansey, his elbows tucked in just above Gansey’s shoulders, his forearms boxing in Gansey’s head.

He was lying on one of his arms, but could have reached around with the other, pulled Ronan off him or hit him or anything. Gansey balled it into a fist instead.

He didn’t move to throw Ronan off. He could have. It would have been so easy.

Ronan was all skin and bones lately. Gansey hadn’t noticed it until he was the person to sign Ronan’s discharge papers and Ronan had come out a pale and wavery reflection of himself. He must have been dropping muscle for weeks. Gansey should have noticed, but it had taken the shock of three days apart for Gansey to see it.

Ronan wasn’t exactly feather-light against his back, though. Gansey squirmed to get his arm out from where it was trapped under his chest, flailed his mostly-free arm up to get his hand around Ronan’s elbow, Ronan’s bicep. He squeezed.

Ronan swore, and pressed down harder, his hipbones digging into Gansey, and then he dipped his head and — Gansey wasn’t sure. Ronan’s mouth was open against the back of his neck again. Gansey thought he could feel Ronan’s tongue, could faintly smell alcohol on Ronan’s breath. He didn’t know what was happening.

They were both hard. At least, Gansey was. Ronan was too, but somehow that was — it seemed rude for Gansey to be noticing that. These things happened, had happened before — Ronan was a very physical friend, or he had been, he was always trying to get Gansey to scramble and roll around in the dirt with him. It didn’t mean anything, or that was what they’d always reassured each other. It didn’t.

“Gansey,” Ronan said, voice still low, quiet under Monmouth’s echoing ceiling, and Gansey couldn’t tell what his tone was, whether it was pleading or goading or disgusted. But then Ronan rolled his hips — his whole body, really — against Gansey.

Gansey dug his fingernails into Ronan’s arm and let him, gasping. Gansey felt raw and cracked open, all his feelings spilling out of him, leaving him echoing inside. He didn't recognize the feeling, but he thought it might be shame.

He shouldn’t want this.

Ronan didn’t want this, didn’t need it, or he would have taken one of the opportunities Gansey had given him and kept giving him, sleepovers in the same bed and letting Ronan pin him when they wrestled and asking Ronan teach him how to fight.

But Ronan hadn’t, and hadn’t, and now he was hurting in ways Gansey couldn’t imagine. And Gansey was going to let Ronan do this to him, because he was too weak to pretend he didn’t want it. Friendship, Gansey had called it. Brotherhood.

It hadn’t been friendship, not the way friendship was supposed to be, and Gansey had known it; it had been something more. It was still something more, for him, even though all Ronan needed from him was platonic. That was all Ronan had ever seemed like he wanted. That was all Gansey should offer him, especially now.

Gansey had thought he was a better friend to Ronan than this. He should be stopping Ronan, finding some way to help Ronan that wasn’t a weapon he could turn against himself, or against their friendship. Instead, Gansey was frozen in petrified anticipation, too cowardly to move back against Ronan, aching to find out what Ronan was going to do to him.

Ronan kissed the back of his neck again. It was a kiss. It seemed disingenuous to call it anything else.

###

“Gansey,” Ronan said, again. He didn't know what the fuck he was doing.

Gansey was warm and sweaty and alive against him, and he had to be able to tell Ronan was hard. Gansey hadn’t slept in four days, since he’d hauled Ronan to the hospital; it didn’t seem like he’d showered, either. Ronan loved it. Normally Gansey smelled of some fancy herbal shampoo Helen shipped him in care packages. Right now he smelled a little stale and a lot sweaty. Ronan rubbed his face into the back of Gansey’s neck.

Ronan was waiting for Gansey to throw him off and punch him in the face. He was waiting for another lecture, another impassioned plea for Ronan to please try to be better, like Ronan couldn't tell Gansey was falling apart too.

Ronan rubbed his dick against Gansey’s ass. The drag of it was so good. He didn't know if he was doing it to goad Gansey or if he just wanted to, like he'd wanted to get his hands on Gansey since he first saw him, since the first time the two of them had stayed up all night talking, since the first time Gansey had put his hand on Ronan’s forearm and promised him magic.

Ronan didn't know if this was lust or love or another form of self-destruction. He wasn't sure it made a difference; this was damning him either way.

“Gansey,” Ronan said, practically begging this time. He couldn't stop his hips from moving again, and this time his dick pushed into Gansey’s crack through their underwear, his boxers and Gansey’s briefs. Gansey gasped and didn’t complain, didn’t push Ronan off him.

“Fuck,” Ronan bit out. He did it again, pushing his dick into Gansey’s round ass, like every dirty thought he'd half-dreamed.

“Gansey,” he said, beyond begging. He couldn't do this to Gansey, who was straight, who was his best friend, who was the only person still here for Ronan, the only person who hadn't given up on him already. Who deserved better than this. Gansey was making little shocked noises, still; like he couldn’t keep them to himself.

“Dick,” Ronan said, one last time, “stop me,” and bit the back of Gansey’s shoulder, tasting cotton, and then again on the skin at the curve of Gansey’s neck, tasting salt. He licked Gansey’s neck, nearly praying Gansey would haul off and punch him. He could already see the aftermath: Gansey apologizing and then pouring him into the bathroom, telling him to sleep it off, like Ronan was just drunk, like they could forget about this in the morning.

Instead, Gansey shook his head.

Ronan didn't understand it.

He went still. Gansey didn't move, though, or say anything. Ronan went up on his elbows a little higher; Gansey’s face was pressed into his pillow sideways, his hands clenched tight, one in the sheets and one in Ronan’s arm. His eyes were closed and he was biting his lip. His fingers were digging into Ronan’s elbow.

Gansey squirmed. That had to be it, discomfort, the sort of fussy dissatisfied movement Ronan was used to from him, because the alternative was that Gansey was rocking up against Ronan on purpose.

Ronan stayed very still. Gansey’s breathing was shallow and his face was hot. Ronan bent down. Sweat was springing up above Gansey’s upper lip. Ronan wanted to lick it.

Their lips touched. Ronan waited for the impact. He'd told Gansey, _don't think about how much it'll hurt_ , but that was the only thought Ronan could keep in his head: the certainty of impact.

Gansey’s breath came in short puffs against Ronan's mouth. Gansey’s lips were parted. He squirmed again. Ronan fought to keep his hips still. And then, baffling: Gansey kissed him.

Gansey was straining his face up, slanting his mouth over Ronan’s. His tongue flickered out against Ronan’s lips.

Ronan froze.

Gansey arced up against him, and this time Ronan could tell it wasn't a squirm. It was Gansey rocking his hips, down against the mattress and then along Ronan’s cock, holding it between his cheeks.

Ronan couldn't think. It was incendiary. He wondered if Gansey was hard. He wondered if Gansey was letting Ronan fuck his ass like this because he wanted more than that, wondered whether Gansey had thought about Ronan inside him the way Ronan had thought about Gansey splitting him open. He wondered if Gansey had been showing off the time they'd been lying in Ronan’s bed at home, at the Barns, and Gansey had jacked off, Ronan achingly hard next to him and pretending he was asleep.

Gansey’s tongue flickered against the seam of Ronan’s lips again. Ronan whimpered. He felt like his arms were trembling, his shoulders, where he was trying to hold himself up.

Gansey started to pull back and Ronan finally managed to move. He opened his mouth, licked at Gansey, clumsily, caught Gansey’s lips against his. He rubbed his hips against Gansey’s ass, a long movement from root to tip and all the way along Gansey’s crack. He wondered if Gansey could feel it against his hole.

He could hardly keep kissing Gansey. The angle was weird, they couldn't really make out the way Ronan wanted to, but Gansey’s breath was coming against Ronan’s lips and chin. Ronan could taste Gansey’s spit. They were sharing breath, Ronan’s panting so loud it nearly filled up the room. Gansey’s noises were muffled by his pillow, and it was a good thing, too.

Gansey was loud. Every breath was a gasp, and he moaned on every thrust, like Ronan was fucking the noises out of him, pushing them up through Gansey’s spine and out of his mouth.

Ronan was damp all over, sweaty because of the heat and Gansey’s proximity and still a little wet from his shower, maybe. Gansey’s shirt was sweated through, clinging to his back and sticking to Ronan’s chest. Ronan wanted to know if his underwear was sticking to him, too, wanted to get Gansey messy, see him pink with exertion.

He wanted a lot of things, so abruptly and stupidly that he almost came just thinking about them.

Instead Ronan went still, and swore, and reached down with one arm — Gansey shifted his hand up the other one and dug his fingers so hard into Ronan’s bicep that he would have a purple handprint to show for it — to pull his dick out of his boxers.

He was balancing on one elbow, his legs clumsily stacked on top of Gansey’s. When he'd pulled away from Gansey’s back, his shirt had clung to Ronan’s chest, briefly, before falling away; it was clinging to Gansey’s sweaty back, again, but rucked up so Ronan could just barely see a sliver of skin between Gansey’s shirt and his tighty whiteys.

Ronan gripped himself. It was easy to pull his dick out of his boxers, but he didn't move his hand away immediately. He was so hard, flushed and velvety against his sweaty palm. Ronan tugged the foreskin back a little; the head was sticky.

He looked at Gansey’s face, but it was unreadable. His brow was furrowed, concentrating, and his lips were a little swollen. That was all Ronan could see.

Ronan rubbed the tip of his dick along Gansey’s crack. Really rubbing it against him. He could feel Gansey’s hole through the cotton, a little dip, and pressed against it, teasing, still half expecting that this would be the last straw.

Instead, Gansey twitched all over, his hands spasming. He moaned, so loud that Ronan felt the need to shush him, just in case Noah was shut up in his room. Ronan hoped he wasn't.

Gansey said, “Ronan,” and it was the start of a sentence he couldn't finish, almost a sob.

Ronan stopped dicking around and pushed his dick against Gansey’s ass for real, against the cheek. He pressed his hand around Gansey’s side, too, really curled down and clung to him.

Gansey’s ass wasn't as soft as it was in Ronan’s imagination. It seemed like it should be, somehow; it was so round. But it was muscled; maybe Gansey was super built or clenching or just needed some Swedish masseuse to smack him with hot rocks, because his ass was like a fucking board.

“Relax,” Ronan murmured, as quiet as he could, feeling ridiculous. Who the hell was he to be — fucking, fucking _tender_ with Gansey? Who the hell did he think he was?

But Gansey just whined again, and then did relax, all over. It was like he was melting; the tension vanished from between his eyebrows, out of his shoulders, out of his ass.

Ronan lost his balance a little, his legs sliding off of Gansey’s now that Gansey wasn't tensing them as counterpoint. Ronan spread his legs, bracketed Gansey’s knees with his own, and let his weight settle onto Gansey like this, let his body weight trap his dick against Gansey’s ass. It was a better angle, like this, somehow; it made Ronan feel wilder, more out of control. He didn't know how he was going to be able to pretend this hadn't been sex.

He rubbed back and forth in tiny hitching movements; that was okay, but the cotton of Gansey’s underwear was going to chafe if he kept thrusting and anyway grinding against Gansey was better, or dirtier, something easier to write off as a late night bad decision, _ha ha yes the time Ronan got drunk and rubbed off on me_. A funny story for Gansey to tell at Ronan’s wake someday.

Ronan ground on Gansey instead, rubbing his dick in big slow circles, letting the curve of Gansey’s ass determine what part of his dick was getting pressure. The tip skidded against Gansey’s low back a few times, where he was slick with sweat, and Ronan swore softly. His forehead was pressed against Gansey’s temple.

Gansey was still letting out soft little moans. Ronan wondered what Gansey was pretending this was. It didn't seem like something straight guys would be into, something easy to repurpose in the imagination like a — fuck, like a blowjob, shit, Ronan’s mouth around Gansey, Gansey hot and salty on his tongue — would be. It wasn’t like Ronan knew shit about — girls, what Gansey was into.

Ronan fucked against Gansey’s ass a little harder, short thrusts that dug the waistband of his boxers into him weird. Gansey’s underwear was all fucked up, probably, and Ronan imagined it, pulled up his crack like he had a fucking wedgie only Ronan’s dick had done that to him, all rumpled and probably with a couple wet patches, too, where Ronan had rubbed the tip.

Ronan was close. He held himself above Gansey and trembled. His arms were nearly shaking; the bandages were coming unstuck all along his forearms. He thought about blowing Gansey after this, just rolling him over and — Gansey shifted against him. Ronan had stopped moving and Gansey wanted more. Ronan groaned. The thought was killing him.

He swore, low, and got his hand between Gansey’s stomach and the mattress, spread his palm out on Gansey’s low belly. Gansey’s abs were taut; Ronan’s hand was half tangled in his t-shirt.

Ronan could reach down from here and cup his hand over Gansey’s dick. He could squeeze and feel Gansey spurt against his palm; he could make sure Gansey fucking loved this, would maybe even wanna do it again.

He didn't. Just spread his palm wide over Gansey’s soft belly and kept rutting. God, he wanted to touch him.

“Dick,” Ronan whispered, finally, or tried to whisper. Sweat was springing up over his bare skull, dripping between his shoulder blades. “Dick, are you hard?”

He had to know. He could check. He was pretty sure Gansey was, if for no other reason than if he wasn't, he'd be too buttoned up to make noises like these.

But Ronan wanted Gansey to say it.

Gansey didn't answer, just rolled his hips back against Ronan.

He didn't answer and it was winding Ronan up, building tension along and down his spine.

Gansey bit his lip; Ronan wanted an answer, suddenly, urgently.

He needed to know that Gansey wasn't just putting up with this because he thought it was what Ronan wanted, the sort of too-generous kindness Gansey offered all his friends.

He hadn't realized he was worried about that but suddenly it was the only important thing. He couldn't be sure Gansey really wanted this; he'd never be able to be sure, because Gansey would lie and lie about his own discomfort to make his friends happy.

The thought pummeled into Ronan’s temple like a bullet, smashing his thoughts open. Like a fucking — crowbar, smearing his brains all over the floor.

Ronan gasped, disgusted, horrified with himself. He thought he was going to be sick; his body misfired, though, fucking useless as always, and instead of managing to pull away before he did something irrevocable, he shot off across Gansey’s low back.

His dick was still pulsing a little when he finally managed to roll off of Gansey and retch over the side of the bed. Nothing came up, thank God, he hadn't had anything but the one mouthful of whiskey all evening. He wouldn’t have to clean up the mess. Ronan heard Gansey shifting behind him. He wasn’t ready.

“Ronan,” Gansey said, so fucking concerned, and Ronan didn't deserve it, didn't deserve an ounce of Gansey’s kindness or his pity or whatever was keeping Gansey tethered to him.

Ronan could feel Gansey’s hand stretched out. Or maybe he just knew Gansey would be reaching out; maybe he couldn't feel the heat of his hand. It didn't matter. Maybe Gansey wasn't reaching out at all. Maybe he was horrified, finally, disgusted with Ronan the way he ought to be.

“Don't fucking touch me,” Ronan rasped out. He wanted Gansey to touch him; he wanted this to be okay. It wasn’t, though; Gansey would have every right not to be able to go through with it, with touching him like nothing was wrong. Like Ronan hadn’t just — he wanted Gansey to touch him but he wanted to give Gansey an easy out. If Gansey couldn't touch him like nothing had happened, Ronan didn't want to know.

Gansey’s hand settled on his shoulder. Ronan flinched despite himself, and it fluttered away. Ronan was dully satisfied.

“I'm going out,” Ronan said. He didn't know what else to do.

“Don't,” Gansey said, softly. “Ronan, I'm sorry. You have every right to be upset.”

Ronan couldn't hear this. He had to get out of here.

“Whatever,” he said. He wanted to lie: I was drunk. He wanted to say: I’m the one who should be sorry.

Instead, he said: “Fuck you, Gansey.” He regretted it. He didn't know what else to say.

Ronan rolled over the side of the bed, tucked his dick back into his boxers. He was sweaty, and it was hot and humid enough that it wasn't drying against his skin.

Ronan went to his room. Gansey didn't follow him.

###

Ronan stopped in the doorframe when he was ready to head out, keys hooked over one finger, bottle dangling from one hand, and looked back across the room.

Gansey was still kneeling in the bed where Ronan had left him. He looked very small, in the moonlight, and very lost.

Ronan’s jizz was probably still smeared all over Gansey’s back, Ronan thought, ruthlessly. Something else Ronan had spoiled, had gotten his inherent filth all over.

“You should take a shower,” Ronan said. Don't let me go, Ronan thought. Tell me to stay. Tell me we’re not ruined. Let me make it up to you. Let me spend the rest of my life making this up to you.

“Be safe,” Gansey said, instead, voice troubled.

Ronan didn't slam the door when he left. He shut it, instead. Gently.

* * *

please fall asleep so I can take pictures of you and hang them in my room  
so when I wake up feel like yeah everything's alright  
you are still here, you are still happy, you are still smiling and laughing  
you are still the only thing and everything I need in my life  
and it goes in -- in -- out through the mouth  
breathing exercises i will never figure out  
til i am running in circles or (i am) walking in circles  
or (i am) crawling in circles or lying on the ground  
  
and I can hear your dog whistle from my bedroom 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to pistolheart for beta & kicking my ass! title & end tag are from flashlight by the front bottoms.
> 
> warnings cont'd:  
> set shortly after ronan’s suicide attempt, therefore contains mentions of ronan’s trauma (violence), alcohol use by teenagers, bad coping mechanisms, and his hospitalization / possible Mental Health Inpatient Stay. gansey is also mentally ill so there's some of that there too.   
> also Lots Of internalized homophobia; this fic contains silent, confusing, strained hookups, the kind where both parties feel dirty and guilty for wanting-touching-letting. everything is (or at the very least intended to read as) consensual, but neither of them know how to talk about wanting each other, especially with their (in this case especially ronan's) baggage in the way; it’s messy and they don’t know how to communicate or admit to what they want.   
> ronan drinks a small amount before sex (& isn't impaired by it) but gansey worries he's drunk and ronan thinks about using alcohol as an excuse for rash decisions. both ronan and gansey spend a fair amount of time worrying that they somehow coerced the other person into doing something they didn't want because they're. lunatic teens in love.


End file.
